“We’ll have an Examiner paper truck meet us there, and haul the rock to the newspaper plant,” my father said. “Let’s shove off.”
I had untied the rowboat. However, as I prepared to step into it, my father pulled me back.
“This little trip isn’t for you, Jane. We might upset. Go back uphill and wait at Roseacres.”
“Don’t be ridiculous, Dad,” I said. “You know very well I can swim circles around you both. If the boat does go under, you’ll be glad to have me along.”
“Maybe you’re right,” my father conceded. “Jump in.”
Water was flowing over the floor of Truman Kip’s workshop as the boat and the cumbersome raft started downstream. Jack, who had elected to steer, found himself hard pressed to keep the prow nosing into the waves. Dad pulled without much enthusiasm at an extra oar supplied him, content to allow the swift current to do most of the work.
“Isn’t this fun?” I said. “Just look at the beautiful stars!”
“Look at the river,” my father said. “Do you realize that if we should strike a floating object—if that big rock should shift—”
“And see the lovely moon,” I went on dreamily. “I think it’s laughing at the joke we’re going to play on George Roth in the morning.”
“That old coot will get a shock when he reads the Examiner,” Dad said, finally relaxing. “So will the publicity agent of the Wild West Show. When I get through, the outfit won’t dare put on a performance within a hundred miles of Greenville.”
“Do you suppose Roth had any part in hiring Truman Kip to fake those record stones?” Jack asked, steering to avoid a floating box.
“Not in my opinion,” Dad said. “He merely thought he would profit by selling them to the museum at a fancy price. It was immaterial to him whether or not he sold fake stones or real.”
“You’ll certainly ruin his little business transaction,” I said. “What will be done about Truman Kip?”
“I’m sure that the sheriff will find him tomorrow and force him to tell the truth—that he was hired by Bill McJavins. With this stone as evidence, he can’t deny his part in the hoax.”
“Can’t you just see that special edition of the Examiner?” I said. “A big splashy picture of this Pilgrim Rock we’re towing, with a story telling how Truman Kip faked the writing. Then, in the next column, a yarn about Mr. Addison’s arrest, and the recovery of the Covington pearls.”
We drifted along for a few minutes before I broke the silence again.
“Dad,” I said. “Speaking of that special edition of the Examiner, you might reserve an extra-large space in the coming edition for an engagement announcement. It seems Jack and I are going to be married.”
Dad tried to look surprised, but he didn’t succeed by a mile.
“You knew, too!” I wailed. “Did Mrs. Timms know?”
Dad just nodded in the moonlight.
“I didn’t know you were such a traditionalist,” I said to Jack. “Here I am a widow of semi-mature years, and still you felt the need to ask my father—”
“There was no need to ask. You know your own mind. Jack has been coming to me for advice about how to woo my only daughter for quite some time now,” my father said quietly. “Four years ago, he already knew he wanted to marry you.”
“But we weren’t even stepping out together then,” I protested.
“No, you weren’t,” said Dad. “That’s how patiently he’s waited until you discovered how much you loved him, too.”
I didn’t know what to say, I was crying all over again.
“It will be a real paper,” Dad continued to cover the sound of my sniffling. “By the way, how were Mr. Coaten and John Addison trapped? Our reporter got the story from the police, but he was a bit vague on that point.”
“I’m far too modest to tell you,” I said, wiping my tears. “But if you’re willing to pay me at double regular space rates, I might be induced to write the story.”
“Trust Jane to drive a hard bargain,” Jack said. “We might have guessed who was responsible, for she never fails to be on hand for the final round-up.”
I smiled to myself as I gazed down the dark, turbulent river. Close by, I heard the deep-throated whistle of a tugboat. Along the bank, tall buildings began to appear, and far ahead, I could see the twinkling lights on the Adams Street Pier.
“We’ve worked on some dandy stories together,” I said, “but this one tops them all for a thrilling finish. Mrs. Covington regained her pearls, Abigail and Ted finally have a home, those two crooks from Texas are behind bars, and the wishing well is equipped with a brand new microphone. You know, I’d like to make one more wish down its moist old throat.”
“What would you ask for this time?” Jack asked. “A safe arrival in port?”
I shook my head. “We’re almost at the pier now. No, I’d wish to forever feel as over the moon with happiness as I do at this moment.”
The End
Jane Carter Historical Cozies: Omnibus Edition (Six Mystery Novels) Page 87
